Academy Vignettes
by The Lady Nightingale
Summary: A few snippets of Adam Pierson's recruitment and time at the Watcher Academy in Geneva, before he became attached to 'The Methos Project'. This grew out of the image of Methos trolling a bunch of student Watchers.
1. Recruitment

_Author's note: This is for Argentum_LS who's stories (particularly 'Never ever' and 'Ace in the Hole' - both somewhat tangentially) gave me the idea for this. Although I was alive in the 80s, I remember very little of that decade, have never been to Europe (or America) and am not, unfortunately, much use with a sword anymore. All errors are therefore mine, and I am happy for you to constructively point them out!_

 **Academy Vignettes**

Getting recruited was always going to be the hardest part. He had a shiny, new identity that would pass just about any scrutiny. He had a shiny new degree in ancient languages that he had actually earned (again). What he did _not_ obviously have was a way to bring these, and his interest in and dedication to history, to the attention of someone who could do something about it.

It wasn't like he could wander up to a Watcher, introduce himself and ask to join a society he wasn't supposed to know about.

The usual way of getting recruited wasn't exactly open to him either. Unexplainable close encounters with his own kind tended to result in at least a covert sounding-out by the Watcher community. Of course, being close enough to an inexplicable healing for a Watcher to see and notice him also meant being close enough for the Immortal involved to feel him and possibly come looking. He wasn't concerned about getting away from the hypothetical other Immortal - after all, he'd been getting away from challenges without drawing steel for almost two centuries. No. Depending on how good the Watcher involved was, though, he could end up _with_ a Watcher, instead of _becoming_ one. Not an ideal outcome at all.

We are, however, discussing the man known at the moment as Adam Pierson, a man who thinks five or six moves ahead of the average Chess Grand Master.

Rewind three years: A young man with a mop of dark hair walks into 'Shakespeare & Company' in the middle of the day in Paris' Left Bank. He asks the man running the place in fairly fluent but appallingly accented French about a book, several decades out of print. It is, and always has been, an English-language bookshop, but that doesn't mean it's clientele are not usually French. "Are you English?" asks the bearded man behind the counter. The other's eyes widen slightly in surprise, "More or less. You're American?"

As months and years pass, the Englishman drops in from time to time; sometimes looking for the obscure and out of print, sometimes for historical reference material and sometimes for a chance to speak his own language without causing the surrounding French to look down their noses. The two men progress from merely speakers of the same language - polite strangers, to 'Adam' and 'Don' and detailed discussions of the former's studies and the latter's most recent and favourite acquisitions. In accordance with the 'Shakespeare & Company' focus on hospitality, Don agrees at one point that Adam can store some of the old papers he has found and collected safely in the shop's basement.

Return to what is, for the current purpose of the story, the present: All right, perhaps the identity wasn't quite so shiny and new as we made out, but at less than a thousandth of his lifetime thus far, it certainly still felt new to the man wearing it.

Adam drifted in to 'Shakespeare & Company' at a bit of a loose end. He had never mentioned plans for after his degree - there would be a ceremony in a few days and then he'd be off to… where? Don hoped whatever plans his friend had made weren't set in stone, "Hello Adam, just the person I wanted to see. You doing anything this afternoon?" Adam shrugged, and Don whisked him off to a local cafe bar. "What are you drinking?"  
"A beer. I'll get it," protested Adam, but Don carefully placed a leather-bound book in front of him.  
"Look at that - I want your opinion," he said, and worked at catching the waitress' attention. By the time the drinks arrived, Adam was engrossed - the beer was almost warm by the time he noticed it. Don smiled a little, his round face anticipating the other's reaction, "What do you think?".  
"It's a fake," declared Adam, "A very good fake - possibly a very old fake. A fairytale." Don shook his head slightly,  
"What makes you so sure?"

Adam began his list, but his mind was elsewhere: how had they gotten hold of Consone's journal? Carelessness on the Spaniard's part, probably. That was why the papers entrusted to Don's cellar were so terribly jumbled, and unidentifiable. "The Spanish, to begin with," his mouth was saying, "It's too old for the dates it purports to cover. And the dates themselves: someone writing a journal over nearly fifty years and there's no evolution of penmanship, no indication of the onset of arthritis or changes in eyesight or, I don't know, development from a more childish hand? Especially in the 18th century. It might not have been in one sitting, but the person who wrote this did it in a short space of time. Otherwise he'd have changed, aged." He took a long drink of his beer in satisfaction. Don tipped his head slightly to one side, "What if time passed, but the writer _didn't_ change? What if he was always the same age?"

Now they were getting somewhere. Adam narrowed his eyes, "That's not possible." He looked again at the book, "What are you saying, Don?"

And Don had explained everything. The existence of Immortals. The existence of Watchers. His own role as a Watcher. The importance of truth, and the equal importance of secrecy. To 'Adam Pierson', a whole new world was opened up. To the man behind that identity it was merely the fall of the next card in a long-planned sequence.


	2. First Day

_Author's note: Unfortunately I go back to work in a couple of days, and I'm an obsessive editor of my own work - although I've never had a beta - so please don't expect the next chapter to be up this fast. In fact, I wrote the first two together, and only decided they were separate on the umpteenth edit. I'm not sure of the 'canon status' of 'An Evening at Joes' but I like it, so I'm using it. Any suggestions for ways Methos would mess with the Watchers' heads gratefully accepted._

The Academy in Geneva was housed in a very modern building maintained under the auspices of the International Assets Corporation and listed as a training venue. The room allocated to Adam Pierson was very acceptable, at least when compared to the various student accomodations he had occupied over the centuries. It was clean and comfortable, with a decent bed, natural light and - wonder of wonders! - a small ensuite. When he stopped and thought about it, he had probably become too accustomed to cleanliness. He had also become accustomed to more complete privacy; travelling without a sword, simply _being_ without a sword was an uncomfortable sensation, but at least he had his gun.

The hundred or so students in his class varied widely in ages - even if you removed his true age as a ridiculous outlier and substituted the age dictated by his current birth certificate. He looked around with interest as he entered the large meeting space for their first session, and found a place to sit down. He chose a currently-empty table and waited to see who would join him at it. Adam knew how these things usually went - trainings, at least. It had been a couple of centuries since he'd last been a Watcher, so he hoped the organisation had moved on from there. At least a little, though he wouldn't mind if they'd kept the beer.

Eventually he was sharing a table with an older (-looking, at least) Asian lady named Vivian, and several who looked about his own age. Most were American and he made an effort to recall their names when they introduced themselves: Jalinda, Will, Garrett. There was also a German girl named Maria. No one seemed quite sure what to do next.

As always, the session did not start on time, because first sessions never do start on time. Adam, who under other names had run countless classes himself, sympathised. Vivian, who probably hadn't, grew more and more edgy, "I thought this was supposed to be a professional organisation," she muttered at one point. Adam left it to the others to soothe, and wasn't surprised to find it was the American girl, Jalinda, who stepped in.

To be honest, Adam was paying more attention to the interactions among his companions than what was happening at the front. He missed the older man in the grey suit's arrival; he also missed his introduction. He only tuned in for: "... Head of the European division, and I'd like to take this opportunity to welcome you to the Watcher organisation. To those of you who have come from other areas, I extend a welcome to Europe, and I hope that you will benefit from the experience and the history we have to offer here. You will see me around over your stay with us, but for the moment I will hand you over to your lecturer, Madame Elena Dubreton."

The lecturer was an open faced woman with a long grey plait. At least Adam was now paying attention. She too welcomed them to the Watcher organisation and to the Academy, and then indicated it was time to make a beginning, "In your groups, I would like you to please share your knowledge and experience of Immortals - the reason we are all here. Paper and pens are provided, I'll give you about half an hour, but let me know if your group finishes before that - I have additional questions."

Adam was not surprised when Vivian appointed herself leader of the exercise, and gave her story of observing a healing while simultaneously making notes in quick, broad handwriting. He kept quiet and tried to predict how each of his companions would react to the backstory he had to offer, and whether anyone would ask for it if he kept his mouth shut. He noticed the boy Garrett was also staying silent, and he tried to work out what brought that on. Maria and Jalinda had similar stories to Vivian, the classic 'see healing, meet Watcher, join' path. Will at least presented a variation - he had first seen the Watcher, then noticed the sword fight he was watching. And then Vivian turned her attention to the remaining members of her group, "You two are very quiet. How did you get here, Garrett?"

"My people have always had legends of beings who can only be killed amid fire and lightning. My ancestors believed them to be messengers from the gods. I thought they were just stories, until one night I saw a weird storm out in the desert and went to investigate…" Adam kept his head down. He didn't want to appear too eager, but he did want to know more about this boy. He hadn't caught a surname, but he was pretty sure Garrett was Hopi, and he wondered whether any stories about a man named Eagle's Flight had been remembered, and in how much detail. It hadn't been so very long ago, after all.

The Americans were duly impressed, and Vivian clearly felt she had been a little upstaged. Her notes were hurried, and less thorough than the story warranted. She also moved on quickly to Adam, not allowing discussion to flow as it had before, "And what about you?"  
Adam looked down, "I don't have anything much to add," he demurred. Surprisingly it was Garrett who pressed,  
"Tell us anyway."  
"I've never seen an immortal. Not that I know of, anyway. Like I said, not very important." Now the young ones were curious,  
"How did you get in, then?" they asked.

"A friend runs a bookshop in Paris, where I was studying ancient languages. When I graduated, he gave me a book to look through - a journal from the 18th Century. It belonged to an immortal, and when I said it couldn't possibly be real, he told me he was a Watcher and what that meant. That's what I know," he smiled disarmingly, "And what was in the journal, of course."

He was rather pleased with Don's chosen route to introducing him to the Watchers. Any mis-information about the experience of immortality he cared to feed the organisation could easily be blamed on the journal, and if anyone checked and found it wanting, he could always blame hurried translation. He had expected merely an opportunity to monitor his fellow Immortals and stay out of the way, but this promised to be an amusing sojourn. He smiled a half smile and waited. He was good at waiting.


	3. Lecture Notes

**Lecture Notes**

Adam tended to keep his mind active during the otherwise interminable lectures by taking notes. It also helped him to remember which version of history and the truth he was currently letting the Watchers believe. The group from the first day continued to sit together, more or less, and Adam's copious notes were a bit of a running joke. No one bothered to look too closely, and Adam would have dissuaded them if they had.

He was a linguist, after all, and he had travelled a lot. He spoke _a lot_ of languages. Not all of them were understood by anyone else anymore.

The problem arose the day Garrett was ill. He missed more than a day of lectures, and their first round of exams were coming up. Adam felt slightly responsible for the boy. Subtle probing had revealed he was not only from the same tribe, but was a direct descendent of the boy who had found him at the bottom of the Grand Canyon when he had decided that attempting flight was preferable to digging himself out of a shallow grave after being hanged for robbery. Immortals do not fly, he had definitively proved it; and in future had accepted death by hanging as the better option. Adam smiled a secret smile as he remembered the origins of the scientific method.

Garrett struggled with 'The Experience of Immortality' particularly. Adam didn't, but he did struggle to recollect what the Watchers knew, thought they knew and completely misunderstood. It had been a particularly dull session, with very few inaccuracies; focused on healing. After all the effects were obvious and the limitations clear - it hadn't taken the mortal Watchers too many centuries to collect a fairly complete picture of Immortals' ability to recover from injury. Not like the much more vigorously debated sessions on pre-Immortals, what the Watchers were currently calling the Buzz, or Quickenings. Adam sniffed. The Watchers had once had a better sense of the dramatic possibilities of language, and even relatively recently it had been known as The Awareness. Adam hadn't realised Garrett was absent until after he had finished the session notes in what was charmingly known to the archeological fraternity as Linear A.

He pulled his attention back to his peer and his notes. It was late, and even Immortals need sleep, but Maria, sweet on Garrett, had bought him a six-pack of beer in exchange for bringing the boy up to speed. He and Garrett had covered most of the missed day, but they had also reviewed most of the term's work on 'The Experience of Immortality' because Adam was sure Maria would blame him if the other man failed. "What factors impact on healings and resurrections?" Garrett shrugged and fidgetted with his pen. The young man was not a book-learner. Adam pressed, "We've covered this a few times..." and then gave in. He stood and mimed sweeping a sword across the torso of his classmate, "Right, you're Immortal, and I haven't cut off your head... so you're gonna survive. But I'm still holding a sword. So you gonna heal fast or slow?" Garrett grinned,  
"Fast, I hope!"  
"But what if I'm mortal, and I've seen you die?" The other furrowed his brows,  
"I guess maybe I'd stay down for a bit? And wasn't there something about injuries to the neck and face not healing properly?"  
"That's what they say. There was this awful picture of someone who'd been cut across the neck with a shard of glass in the 20s... OK, what about if you didn't _know_ you're Immortal - if this is your first time coming back?"  
"Would that really make a difference?" Adam paused; it always seemed to, but he suddenly couldn't remember if the Watchers had written it down anywhere. Besides, Watchers weren't usually around new Immortals till later. He shrugged, "Who knows? They've only been doing this 3,000 years, and it doesn't seem like they're big on asking..." He went to check his notes.

"What is that chicken-scratch?" Garrett interrupted. Adam paused. The answer, Minoan, would only get him in trouble if Garrett knew anything about ancient writing systems and it was late enough that he might not even remember by morning. But the boy was also very observant and the kind of person who investigates things he doesn't understand, so Adam erred on the side of caution, "It's a kind of early Greek, actually. Look, I'm out of beer and you look like your eyes are only open because your eyelids have forgotten how to close. I'm calling it a night."

"Did you know Adam takes his notes in Greek?" It was the following morning, and Garrett and Maria were talking before class. Adam tried to play it down,  
"Got to keep the skills up - my training is in ancient languages, remember."  
"But why Greek?"  
"Because hieroglyphics take too long?" He offered and the others laughed and let it go. Actually, his hieroglyphics were very good, and fairly quick. The trouble was with the vocabulary. The Egyptians hadn't had another word for Immortal, and Adam just wasn't comfortable with referring to himself as a god.

 _Author's Note: I don't speak, read or write Ancient Egyptian - if you do, please feel free to correct me!_


End file.
